


Baked with Love, or at least Grudging Regard

by Daegaer



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cake, England's cooking, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-26
Updated: 2010-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-06 17:28:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>France eats some cake</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baked with Love, or at least Grudging Regard

"Ah, Angleterre, what is this monstrosity?"

"It's a cake," England said. "It's a delicious, nutritious cake." He shoved a slice under France's nose. "Eat. It."

France took the plate. He grudgingly lifted the little fork. He watched England drink some tea and watch him back. He tried a charming smile.

"England –"

"Oh, you actually know my name in my own language."

"England, I had such a large lunch, I hardly think I could eat another bite. Perhaps I will have some cake later." France put the plate down and pushed it away, wondering how it was the cake could be quite so grey and lumpy-looking.

England put his tea down and pushed the plate of cake back. "I made it for you."

"That's what I'm afraid of," France muttered. _Damn_, he thought. If it wasn't bad enough to have Germany tramping round his house putting his jackboots up on the furniture, now he had to eat England's cooking? What was his boss thinking, setting up the government in exile in England's territory? Surely a nation with a more congenial climate and cuisine could have been persuaded to be charitable? He took a bite and grimly chewed. And chewed. And chewed. _I am eating a cake that needs to be chewed_, he thought. _Lying down in front of one of Germany's tanks would have been more pleasant_. "What's the secret ingredient?" he asked.

"Potatoes."

France felt his shoulders sag. "I see." This was the natural result of all their centuries of enmity, he thought. A dessert made out of potatoes he was obligated to eat. He wasn't even sure if it was fully cooked or still somewhat overly filled with raw potatoes. _Beggars can't be choosers_, he told himself, _and for now, France, you are a beggar_. He forced down another few mouthfuls before looking up at England again. He wasn't gloating or laughing, France saw. He looked a little shy, and a little hopeful as if he thought he'd been ingenious in his use of rations. They had been enemies in the past, France thought, and it was true to say they didn't like each other much in the present, but England had taken him in at once, not quibbling, not laughing at his misfortune. "It sort of grows on you," he said. "Unusual texture, but very substantial. Yes – substantial," he said.

England's face brightened, and he looked about three hundred years younger. He cut France another, bigger slice. France managed a smile almost as wide as his normal one and ate every single bite.


End file.
